


Masquerade in Red

by northandsouth



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Masquerade Ball, elisa - Freeform, fairy godmother - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 10:37:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3206147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northandsouth/pseuds/northandsouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke just really wants to go to Octavia's birthday party.</p>
<p>(Or, Raven is a fairy godmother)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masquerade in Red

**Author's Note:**

> for the wondeful elisa, partaking in our fanfic swap (which, hopefully, there will be more to come. mostly because i covet her writing. hahahA judge me)
> 
> also is this implied raven/clarke??? who know, certainly not meeee

CLARKE’S REALLY, 100% done with her mother’s shit.

She’s buried her head deeply in her arms as her mother rants about why leaving the house next Friday night is not good, because heaven forbid she act like a real teenager. She’s sick of her evenings looking the same every time: doing homework and studying until her mom goes to bed, then maybe sneaking out if Octavia’s up for it. Her mom was completely oblivious of her leaving-the-house-at-night habits.

“Do you not take your future seriously?” her mother is saying, and Clarke refrains from groaning. “Med school is something that you need to focus on. Not only are grades important, but studying to be ahead is, too. Valedictorian needs to have your name on it. Are you listening to anything I’m saying, Clarke Griffin?”

“Hm?” she responds, jerking up. “Yeah, uh, um, studying. Med school. Right. Continue on.”

Her mother eyes her warily before sighing. “I have a date Friday night, anyway. I couldn’t take you even if I wanted to.”

Clarke’s actually paying attention, now. “Wait, what?”

“I have a date Friday night,” her mother emphasizes. “One of my coworkers, Marcus, asked me to dinner. I decided to accept.”

“Mom, that’s — that’s great. I’m proud of you. Dad would be proud.” It’s been six years since he died when Clarke was twelve. It would be their luck that he would be at the bank during a holdup. He never came home. She had moved on; she was only waiting for her mom to. “I hope you have fun.”

Abby Griffin smiles and sighs again, before leaning over the table to ruffle her daughter’s hair. “Thanks, Clarke,” she says. “Go queue up something on Netflix. Take a break.” With that, Abby is gone, probably to go take a shower or something.

Clarke keeps from rolling her eyes. If only her mom understood that taking a break meant actually leaving the house and breathing real air, for once, instead of staying cooped up on the couch and eating ice cream (although sometimes, that was fun, too). Going out dancing with Octavia sounded appealing right now, but alas, she could not escape until her mom went to sleep.

She stands up. “I guess there’s a stack of books calling my name.”

 

+

 

FRIDAY HAS COME faster than Clarke would assume.

Her textbooks are hooked in her arms, with her sketchbook lying neatly across the top of the stack. She tries to tell herself she’s going this slowly because she’s tired (actually, the books are weighing her down. It’s the weekend. Why are her teachers assigning so much work?). The keys to her beat up red truck are dangling from her fingers, chiming when they knock together.

Of course Octavia would appear right then and there. She looks flawless, her chocolate colored hair falling effortlessly over her shoulders in pin straight waves, looking like she could kill someone in her combat boots. She grins when she sees Clarke walking down the hallway.

“Hey!” Octavia says, sidling up to her. “Did you get the monster to let you out?”

“No,” Clarke grumbles. “She’s going on a date, or something. I may be able to sneak out for, like, and hour, but don’t expect much.”

Octavia pouts. “It’s better than nothing. I don’t get why your mom is so hard on you. You are number one, after all, what more does she want? You never have time to be a teenager.”

“Believe me, I find it annoying, too. I’ll text you if I can get out. All right?”

“Yeah, okay,” Octavia responds. “I’ll save you a cupcake.” And like that, she’s gone, crossing the hallway to go find her boyfriend, Lincoln.

Clarke finds her way out of the school, weaving through the parking lot until she reaches her truck. The last person she wants to see is leaning against it; Finn Collins, douchebag extraordinaire. He jumps up when he sees her, meeting her gaze, before beginning to walk forward.

“God, I don’t have time for this. What do you want, Finn?” she asks, irritated.

“You going to Octavia’s birthday party?”

“You haven’t met my mother.” Clarke watches as he opens his mouth to say something, but she goes, “No, that’s not an invitation. Can you leave now?”

He sighs. “Clarke, come one, give me another chance.”

“What part of “no way in hell” do you not understand?”

“All of it.”

“Bye, Finn,” she tells him, opening up the door and slamming it closed (she may or may not be careless when she backs out. Hitting Finn is not a loss, she’s decided). He watches her pull out of the parking lot at mock twelve, and she speeds down the roads to get to her house, blaring the radio as loud as she can. She knows it can’t knock the sadness away, but hell, it sure does help in the moment.

Clarke huffs angrily as she jumps out of her car. Abby is sitting in the well-cared for garden, rearranging the fairy furniture delicately. The sunhat on her mom’s head is reflecting the rays. She looks like a typical housewife, and it’s misleading, because her mom is literally the furthest thing from typical.

“Hey, honey,” her mom tells her as she unloads the textbooks from her car. “How was your day?”

Clarke smooths down her hair as an attempt to look happier. “Oh, good,” is the response. “Gonna go study. You know, Valedictorian stuff,” and then she’s gone, running into the house. She leaves her mom to revamp the fairy garden (Abby claims it’s some kind of tribute to the fairy world. Clarke thinks it’s bullshit).

She makes it to her room in record timing, tossing her books on her bed, only to stop cold when she hears a strangled noise. She turns slowly. On Clarke’s bed, a girl is laying down, a jacket discarded against her stomach. Textbooks are lying around her, one with a corner buried into her cheek.

“Damn. I expected a better welcoming than this.”

Clarke’s eyes go wide. “Who gives a welcoming to someone that appears in their room?”

“Well, I mean, I am your fairy godmother,” the girl says, shoving away the books and sitting up. “I’m about to do you a lot of favors. You could’ve been, I don’t know, a little nicer.”

Clarke cocks her head. “Um . . . fairy godmother? Sorry to break it to you, but those don’t exist.”

The girl puts her hand over her heart. “I’m heartbroken, Clarke. Really. I’ve lived in your garden for the better part of your life and you just brush me off? That’s cruel.” There’s a pause. “By the way, my name’s Raven.”

“Well, Raven,” Clarke says. “I don’t see your point here.”

“You have a birthday party you wish to attend, am I correct?” Raven asks, raising her eyebrows. “It’s my job to help you avoid your mom and get you there. Preferably in a beautiful dress.”

Clarke adds hastily, “And mask. It’s a masquerade ball. It’s for my best friend, Octavia.”

“Whatever. Don’t care about the details. This is my assignment —” she pulls out document that looks ancient, and because of the light filtering in her room through the window, she can see the ornate script printed on the paper — “‘Get Clarke Griffin to Octavia Blake’s birthday bash. Help her avoid her mother. Get her home in time.’ Also, see footnotes: ‘Please find her a dress. Nicely made, good quality, preferably poofy and white with some shiny heels.’”

“Wait, seriously?” Clarke steps forward to snatch the slip out of Raven’s hands, but the fairy disappears and reappears behind her.

“Sorry, Clarke, but I don’t think so,” Raven says. “Gotta find you a dress — and a mask, blah blah blah, whatever — for the big night. So, what do you think of red?”

 

+

 

CLARKE CAN barely breathe.

Honestly, it has to do more with how she looks than the weight of the dress. Raven is inspecting her nails nonchalantly, not paying attention, while Clarke looks in the mirror, her fingers gently caressing the material. Red looks good on her, she decides. She should probably wear it more often.

“Can I keep this?” she asks her fairy godmother absentmindedly.

Raven jerks up. “Hm? Oh, yeah, you can keep it. Just promise me you’ll hide it. Or, if your mom sees it, tell her it was a secret gift from your grandma. I highly doubt she’d be surprised.”

Clarke twirls gently, the silver jewels on the bodice glimmering in the light. The skirt falls straight down, made of some kind of tulle, she thinks. Her lower arms are clad in silky, red gloves. “Okay.” She lifts the skirt up and glances down at the red platform heels that are probably the height of a skyscraper. Her long, blonde hair is pulled into some kind of complicated bun at the base of her neck, imbedded with a comb and jewels to match the teardrop earrings. On her face is the most eloquent mask, silver and red, gracing her features well; there’s jewels dropping from all over the guise. She feels like a princess.

“Why red?”

“Well,” Raven begins, “you look good, for one. For two, there’s a short story called “Masque of the Red Death”. Sorry, but I’ve always wanted to deck out someone in all red and quote it as they enter the ball, ever since I was put on official duty. What can I say? I’m a Poe fan.”

“I’m not sure how to take that.”

“I’m comparing you to classic literature. That’s, like, the highest compliment ever.”

“Um,” Clarke responds, but Raven just puts her hand up, before ducking out the door. She stands there for a second before the fairy comes back.

“All clear. Your mom’s gone. She just pulled away.”

“Now what?”

“What do you think? We get you outside to your car — to which I’ve taken liberties, by the way. Also, I’m driving, so please hand me the keys.”

The slow response is, “Okay,” as she gets them from the nightstand where she’d set them after the discovery of Raven. “Can I text Octavia and tell her I’m coming?”

“Does your mom check your texts?”

Clarke snorts. “If she did, then I’d be under house arrest a long, long time ago.”

“Cool. Do whatever won’t get you caught. Because otherwise I will be compromised, and I seriously don’t feel like getting in trouble with the Council.”

Clarke picks up the phone.

Me: bypassing the monster.

Tavia: oh, thank god.

Somehow, she and Raven manage to get down the stairs and outside. Her battered truck isn’t in the driveway anymore; a sleek, red 2010 Mustang has taken its place. The fairy helps Clarke into the car, before climbing into the other side, readjusting her tank top when she’s buckled.

Raven drives as if she knows exactly where she’s going, heading through town at breakneck speed. Apparently, they can’t be seen, due to some kind of fairy spell on the car. They finally reach the hall where Octavia’s party is, but not after Clarke spins woozily because of the speed, and when they step out, the people filtering in pause to look.

The fairy stops Clarke at the stairs. “Okay, rules: can’t be passed midnight. Also, all of this is real, not some kind of illusion, so you aren’t going to, like, have your dress vanish. Although the car has some stuff going on, so if you want to be seen leaving in a Mustang, you better be make sure you’re here.”

“Why midnight?”

Raven rolls her eyes. “Day time magic expires then,” she says. “If I had used nighttime magic, it would be at around four in the morning, but I had to use day time magic because we started in the day. So, midnight. Got it?”

“Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.” Raven cocks her head. “You ready for this?”

“Yeah,” Clarke responds, slightly breathless.

They link arms until they reach the door of the hall. Raven stops. “‘It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade . . . But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat feverishly the heart of life.’”

“Did you just . . . ?” Clarke asks, and the fairy grins wildly, dropping her elbow.

“Of course. Now have fun. Don’t be stupid; don’t drink, don’t do drugs, and have protected sex. Okay, bye!” And in a quiet swirl of wind, Raven is gone, leaving the girl dressed in red to enter alone.

She bites her lip, before going in, met with the sight of dancing teenagers to blaring music. She stands out among them, the only one dressed in bright red; even still, Clarke can spot Octavia dressed in a dark blue ball gown as she dances with Lincoln. Somehow, she manages to steal all the light without trying.

Clarke grins. “Finally,” she muses. “Some fresh air.”

 

+

 

SHE’S NEVER been good at dancing.

Octavia found her about five minutes in, and hasn’t left her since, but unlike the brunette, she can’t move naturally. She may look like a princess, but she can’t act it; she’s awkwardly swaying from side to side while Octavia shows off the moves from dance class. When a slow song comes on, her best friend offers her an apologetic smile before disappearing.

This is how she ends up hugging the walls, debating pulling off her heels (or killing Raven for not adding a warning label on them). It’s weird watching everyone get a slow dance while she’s one of the people floating on the edges, so she lets her fingers play with the skirt to help distract her.

When she sees Finn dancing with a random girl, she resists from throwing up, because, let’s face it, Finn is an asshole — he may be charming, but one nonetheless. The next slow song plays and he smiles at the girl, before he locks eyes with her and begins to approach. Hastily, she moves away from where she’s standing, opting to find the food instead.

Clarke ends up standing next to a boy in a black and white mask to match his tuxedo. His black hair glimmers in the colorful lights decorating the hall, and his olive skin seems a shade darker. She swallows. Even without being in close proximity, she can tell that he’s super attractive, something that makes her nervous.

Finn is still on his way. “God damn it,” she mutters, pressing a hand to forehead.

“Trouble in paradise?” the boy beside her asks.

Clarke sighs. “He’s my ex who doesn’t really seem to get the message.”

The boy glances over. “He seems kind of douchey.”

“You forgot about the part where he’s a habitual cheater.”

“Ouch.”

“No kidding.”

Finn has managed to reach them, and he taps Clarke on the shoulder. With confidence, he asks, “Would you like to dance?”

She’s about to say no, when the boy says, “Sorry, but I asked her first,” and with grace that she doesn’t think even a prince could have, he drags her to the dance floor. At first, it’s awkward, because Clarke can feel Finn watching her, and the boy just seems to know what he’s doing by the way he wraps his arms around her.

When the slow dance ends, she is prepared to leave, but the boy tells her, “Let’s keep that guy away from you.” And so they spend the night small talking, dancing together, and she decides she really likes this kid, likes the way she feels secure in his arms, likes the way his voice sounds, likes the way he barely knows her but decides to protect her anyway.

The illusion is shattered when her cell phone rings and she has to pull away. It’s an unknown number, and on the other line is Raven. “Clarke, we’ve got a major problem.”

“It’s not even midnight.”

“It’s not about the magic,” Raven says impatiently. “Your mom is on her way home, so you better get your ass out here. I’m using the payphone outside.”

“But I met this guy —”

“That’s great. Would you rather you be put on lockdown?”

Clarke sighs. “No.”

“Okay, so, let’s go.” Raven hangs up.

Without pause, Clarke dashes out of the hall, barely hearing the shouts of the boy behind her. She only stops when her ankle twists and she has to leave her high heel behind (later, she makes Raven have a moment of silence with her in mourning), and she slides into the Mustang with a poise she didn’t know she had.

Raven briefly looks at her. Then, she revs the engine, and they’re driving at lightning speed, and in about ten minutes flat are pulled into the driveway of the house. Clarke jumps out, her remaining heel in hand, and follows the fairy through the doorway and up to her room. Raven barely gives Clarke time to breathe before there’s a flash of light and everything’s moving — she’s in her clothes that she was wearing earlier, and her outfit is being stacked at the back of her closet.

She rushes to sit down, frantically peeling through textbook pages to make it look like she’s been studying. Raven quickly helps her forge notes. When they finish, they both let out a sigh of relief. Clarke presses her head to the book. “Oh, thank God.”

“I prefer to thank my Nana, but, you know, your choice,” Raven tells her. “Anyway, gotta go. The fairy godmother life calls.”

Clarke furrows her eyebrows. “You have other people to, um, fairy godmother?”

Raven rolls her eyes. “Yeah. Don’t worry, Princess, I’ll be back . . . eventually. Toodles.” And then she pulls the same trick she did earlier, disappearing into the quiet hush of wind, leaving Clarke alone.

She isn’t sure what it is, but everything seems emptier without her fairy godmother.

 

+

 

CLARKE’S MOM doesn’t suspect a thing.

Clarke wakes up the next morning, feeling sore in every muscle, and about once every hour she looks at the back of the closet to look at her dress. At one point, she even reads The Masque of the Red Death (she tells herself it’s because she’s bored). Anything to get her mind off of Raven and that boy in the stupid mask.

She hasn’t heard anything from Octavia except for a text that says something about meeting up for lunch, eventually. Later, there will probably be something about begging her mom for an exception. Around noon, Abby check in and says, “I’m going to the bookstore. I’ll be back in about two hours.”

“Okay, Mom,” Clarke says, giving her a smile. “Bring me something back?”

“Of course.” And with that, Abby’s gone.

Clarke’s slightly freaked out, though, when the doorbell rings. She can hear it from inside her room, thanks to the ringer-thingy in the hallway. She’s fairly certain it’s no one but Octavia, come at a completely convenient time, so she doesn’t think much of her bunny rabbit pajamas when she opens the door.

Needless to say, she’s surprised when it turns out to be Bellamy Blake. Who is holding her shoe.

She makes an angry face. “What are you doing here?”

“You left your shoe,” he says calmly. “Explains why you were so tall when we were dancing.”

Her heart constricts. “Wh-what?”

“You. Me. Dancing. You know, after the appearance of your douchebag ex?”

“No way,” is her response. “That was you?”

He makes a gesture towards the red heel in his hand. “Obviously.”

“But — we don’t get along,” she stammers. “We fight every time I’m at your house.”

“Would you believe me if I told you it was sexual tension?”

“You sound like Octavia.”

“I am a blood relative of her.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Thank you for your observation, Sherlock.”

Bellamy hands her the shoe. “I was thinking you might want this back.”

Hugging it to her chest, she says, “Yeah, thanks.”

“Also, you should wear them out sometime. Maybe to coffee with me?”

She raises her eyebrows. “Okay. You’re on.”

Bellamy doesn’t mask the surprise. “Okay. I’ll, um, text you?”

She laughs. “Sure. Although apparently my mother is a monster.”

“Octavia’s mentioned,” he replies. “I’ll see you around?”

“That you will, Bellamy Blake,” Clarke tells him. “But if you want to survive, you might want to leave before the monster gets home.”

“Okay, Clarke Griffin,” he says. “Bye.”

She grins. “Bye.”

She doesn’t think it can get better than this.

(Of course, she was wrong. But that’s a story for another day.)


End file.
